


Indulging

by Strigimorphaes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Biting, Dominant Mairon, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Content, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To yield to, satisfy, or gratify desires."</p><p>Some of Melkor's troops occasionally use psychoactive plants. Upon hearing of this, Melkor gets an idea - and possibly more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulging

**Author's Note:**

> I've chosen to use the names Melkor and Mairon instead of Morgoth and Sauron - I hardly think they'd be going around calling each other dark and abhorred instead of mighty and beautiful. Set somewhere during the siege of Angband.
> 
> There's been some amazing fanart by morphym37 on tumblr! http://morphym37.tumblr.com/post/167723962528/requested-by-morgause1-3-its-the-hallucination  
> 

The courtyard is crowded and noisy, yet somehow Mairon finds that he and Melkor can hold conversation as if they were alone. They walk through smoke and crowds of orcs and men working in the dry dust, through an arid wind that blows in from the northern plains. No one disturbs them. Instead, people part around them like water before immovable stone. He hopes that it is not only because of Melkor's formidable presence - Mairon takes great pride in how he has raised, bred and trained the warriors who surround them. He had finished the day's inspection of the troops before Melkor called on him, taking him... Well, Mairon does not know where they're going, but that hardly matters.

Great stone stairs lead up to the entrance of a darker wing of the fortress of Angband. As Mairon approaches it, he notices that it has begun to snow. The snowflakes falll gently, and Mairon sees them melt on his sleeves and get caught in his long hair. It's rare for him to feel the weather. Even now, he stands upon miles and miles of tunnels, and usually, he'd be down there.

He looks to Melkor who appears as a single solid form amidst the myriad of changing, moving shapes busy around them, all black and grey, gold trim along the edges of his clothing. And Melkor reaches out for him - in one languid motion, he drapes his cape around Mairon's shoulders so that they share its heavy weight. Mairon finds himself pressed up against his Lord, forced to walk in step, and to some, it might appear that Melkor is keeping him warm. Mairon dares to assume that it's something entirely different. It is a simple expression of possessiveness. Melkor has drawn a wing around Mairon, forced his way into Mairon's space, chosen him for all to see. And it  _is_  warm there, pleasantly so, under the wing. 

Melkor's voice is low when he speaks. "I hear how well you've been doing with the orcs."

Mairon nods, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "Our numbers grow." 

"So I have heard. I have also heard of a  _habit_  forming amongst them."

Mairon almost trips over a step, cursing inwardly at how ungraceful he must have looked.

"Habit? I've all but extinguished the horrible drinking that plagued them, my Lord, and along with the Men, I'd say they are growing more disciplined in general..."

"I know. Efficient as ever," Melkor says. "But these men know of a species of plant - a tiny, otherwise useless little growth clinging to the cliff sides, more abundant in Lothlann. Its leaves can be chewed, eaten whole or made into powder... I have seen those men who use it, Mairon, glassy-eyed and distracted from their duties. This is not like the leaves the elven scouts might use: it does not quicken or sharpen the senses. It just makes our people see mirages. It dulls their minds." He breathes, and his breath becomes a thin mist between them. "I do not want to see it."

"Shall I put an end to their use, then?" 

He receives a cool look. "With your usual efficiency."

Mairon nods. "Is that all?"

The warmth around his shoulders is suddenly snatched away when they reach the top of the stairs. The look in Melkor's eyes tells Mairon that no, it isn't. There is a promise of more to come if Mairon would just follow.

So he does.

Mairon recognizes the place he is led. Down the hallway and beyond the decorated doors lie Melkor's chambers: a series of studies and libraries where Mairon has often been, a few somber rooms for high councils and beyond that places even he has not seen.

He follows Melkor past books and globes, through rooms of scattered scrolls and tables adorned with maps and plans, some of which he's made himself. Then at last they appear to have reached their goal.

The room is large enough that there is space for lavish furniture, yet small enough that it feels uncomfortably intimate. Divans and a low table stand at the center, dark in color and with masterful woodwork. The windows are large but show nothing but gray sky. As if to compensate for this the walls are decorated with tapestries. Mairon spends a moment walking along them, glancing at scenery from lands he doesn't care to remember. Other tapestries show nothing but a flurry of colors, but either way they've all been neglected, bleached and faded by dust and time.

By Melkor's gesture, he takes a seat leaning against the silk pillows on one of the divans. Melkor sits opposite of Mairon, and his clothing falls into deep folds and faults around his shape. His dark hair seems to have gained the red glow of fire.

Mairon waits, crosses his legs and adjusts the button at the neck of his shirt.

"Why did you bring me here, my Lord?" he asks.

Melkor leans back, undoing the metal clasp of his cape. The cloth falls softly over the back of the divan. "An impulse," he says. Mairon, accustomed to his Lord's changing moods, tilts his head and waits for the, possibly strange, request that is sure to follow.  His eyes follow Melkor's slender hand as it reaches into a pocket and withdraws holding something still hidden. "Tell me, Mairon - have you ever used such things? Either this plant or the elven leaves?"

"No," Mairon replies. 

"Why?"

"I want control of my senses." He swallows, aware that his voice wasn't as cold as he had liked it to be. 

In response, Melkor unfurls his hand, showing his open palm. A little handful of small leaves lie there, a sickly green from the frost outside. Mairon does not reach out for them. Keeps his hands folded.

"Are you not at least scientifically interested?" Melkor asks. "I think this would make quite a field of study."

"I could probably make something of it. But with all due respect, do you want me to take these to my atelier or to  _take_ them?"

"You usually indulge me so easily, Mairon."

"I do... And I do find them interesting, but in any experiment, I'd rather be the observer than the subject. Just like you, I suppose. With all due respect. “ For a moment, there is tense silence between them. “These leaves wouldn't even work for you, would they?"

"I wonder."

Mairon waits for more, but Melkor stays silent. He then feels a hint of desire that he knew would come, for he can't help but long to please the person he has served for millennia. They've had small power struggles before, but Mairon is always the loser - and yet he can't get the simple words "I will" past his lips now. And Melkor's voice has a dark edge to it that Mairon recognizes. It makes him want to try suggesting that they just have wine instead, and the image of a possible night together has already formed in his head when, with a sudden movement, Melkor closes the distance between them.

He rises to his full height, taller than Mairon by far, placing a hand on the maia's jaw. Mairon feels a thumb force its way past his lips, prying them apart. It remains at the corner of his mouth to hold it open. With his other hand Melkor places the leaves on Mairon's tongue, fingers invading the space of Mairon's mouth and running along soft, wet warmth and white teeth. Mairon can taste Melkor's skin, smell his scent. And Melkor presses the leaves down, forcing Maiton to taste them too.

Mairon resists for a moment, more by reflex than choice. He raises his hands, but does not act. He forces himself to surrender because he'd never really  _dare_  – and Melkor looks disappointed and pleased all at once.

Finally, Melkor withdraws his fingers, placing a hand on each side of Mairon's head instead. He pulls the two of them together in a kiss that almost overwhelms Mairon: his master's saliva mixes with the mess of bitter-tasting leaves, everything wet and sloppy and tinged with smoke. When Melkor pulls back, he forces the maia's mouth shut. Mairon has no choice but to chew and swallow while Melkor places small kisses along his cheekbones and down his neck in a way that would be almost  _soothing_  if he was anyone else. 

When he is released, Mairon slumps down into his seat again, gasping for breath. He glances up to see Melkor standing above him.

"Tell me when it starts," Melkor says, "I'll be right here."

Mairon lets his hands drop limply to his side, leaning back against a silk pillow. His eyes meet Melkor's, making it clear that he's not entirely satisfied with the turn things have taken, but not so rebellious as to put the feeling into words. He'll accept and follow, like he always does.

"Look the door," he asks, his voice whisper-thin.

He registers Melkor leaving with slow steps and then soon after the sound of a lock turning. Then he watches the wall opposite him, the faded tapestries, the dark stone, and wonders what he'll see.

He's afraid. He's not used to that feeling and he dosen't like to dwell on it, but he is. It is a simple consequence of having lived as long as he has, of having seen so much. He remembers many things that he does not often think about - Dark places full of ghostly beauty, great ballistas and broken blue glaciers; all the northern lights long gone by sunrise. Valinor, Aulë's host, art so beautiful he remembers it as feelings more than objects. Faces long forgotten that might still be brought back to flickering, momentary life if he lets his mind wander. Nothing haunts him now, and he rather likes it that way. 

For a while he sits still, saying nothing and feeling strangely content as Melkor returns to sit opposite him, observing. It's hard for Mairon to deny that he likes being the object of Melkor's attention so wholly, and he plays absentmindedly with strands of his own hair. After a little while only the taste of Morgoth remains in his mouth, the bitterness gone. He lets himself think that maybe he won't feel anything at all. 

Then he feels a tingling spread through his body.

It begins in his stomach. Then it takes his arms, running through his veins out to his hands and the tips of his fingers. He swallows and finds that his throat is dry.

Slowly, he flexes his fingers, trying feel if his control of them is fading. He makes a fist and releases it again, content with the result even though he doesn't feel  _right_.

He waves his hand in front of his eyes, slowly, almost lazily, and sees a trail of sparks following it. The lights remind him of his forge, of imminent fire and warmth, but there is none: it is a cold and unreal spectacle. Moving his hand again, he sees the same result. Then he slowly turns his head and looks to the rest of the room. The same sparks flicker around the few rays of arctic sunlight that manage to slip in. Light buzzes by the planes of the floor and the walls.

Mairon looks straight ahead, no longer avoiding the sight of Melkor. The lights hide by the hem of his clothing and surround his head like a halo.  _Or,_ Mairon thinks,  _not just lights, something else, older, better._ He finds himself leaning forward to have a closer look and sees that the lights are more like large golden flowers here, like those from Laurelin before it fell, blooming white and gold like a crown on Melkor's head.

He can't help but stare.

"What do you see?" Melkor asks, his voice surprisingly soft - or maybe it's just made blurry by the blood rushing through Mairon's veins. The question makes him look up so that their eyes meet, and Mairon can't look into the dark of his master's eyes for more than a moment. Melkor's entire being is clothed in hallucinations: Sparks turn to golden flowers that turn to pure color that fades to resume the cycle and it happens everywhere, with every movement, flowers spilling from every fold and hem of Melkor's clothing.

"Light," Mairon answers, licking his dry lips. "You are clothed in it."

"And you?"

Mairon looks down at himself, eyes wandering over the suddenly foreign shapes of his own body. His stomach has become a steep cliff side, the palms of his hands are plains and his head is so, so light. He sees no flowers in his own lap, only the folds of his clothing deep as gorges.

"No," he whispers. His eyes flicker form the landscape of his body to the landscapes on the walls. The tapestries seem more colorful, and where blue bleeds into green he sees a coastline that he knows by heart. Specks of light turn into the distant lanterns of lighthouses on Almaren, the island where the Valar lived before Valinor. The island where  _he_  had walked under the mixed light of the two lamps, and isn't that the light that he's seeing now, washing over the room? He swallows and hears something like a wave crashing in the back of his head. And the gulls, how could he forget the gulls that had been singing their discordant almost-songs, ever-watching as Mairon had first defied the old Ainur, giving all their secrets away- 

A wave of  _something_  washes over him. It is almost melancholy, faintly bitter yet not unpleasant. He remembers an echo of a meeting; Melkor's words had been so sweet that night as Mairon was first seduced to his side. Now - and it is increasingly hard for Mairon to remember the moment he's in - he fumbles for words but cannot find any. That frightens him, for if there is one thing he knows, then it is words. He dosen't want that, dosen't want the memory of gold and glittering walls that he always cursed at, wanting them to fall to dust and gravel by his feet. 

He distracts himself, tears his eyes from the tapestries. He looks, as always, to Melkor. He needs to think only of him and the flowers, not old mirages.

Slowly, he stands. He takes a step towards Melkor. He rises without much trouble, not swaying,  _good_ , another step-

Then he stumbles, his feet tingling with a now familiar sensation, and on the way down everything becomes a soft blur. He feels no impact with the floor. He only notices that now, he is on his knees in front of Melkor, and the floor here is golden with fallen petals and moving beneath him. (Like waves, he thinks, a ship stolen in the night). Though he has been in this place, kneeling before his Lord, he can't be content there now.

He gets to his feet again and sees faint surprise in Melkor's face as he does so.

At that moment Mairon realizes that whatever he does in this state, he can blame the plant later. He also notices the wealth of flowers beckoning to him. 

Mairon places a hand on Melkor's knee and pulls himself up so that he's standing again, and then he leans forward, inward, until he's straddling Melkor's waist. As Melkor blinks, flickering sparks seem to fall from his eyelashes, the look equal parts challenging and urging. As Mairon feels a hand on his side, he knows from past encounters that Melkor will try to pull him down and force him onto his back like he's done so often before.

Not this time.

Mairon grabs the wandering hand by the wrist and forces it away. The movement sends a flurry of gold petals falling as the flowers in Melkor's wide sleeve are destroyed. That's what he needs to do, he realizes, he wants to  _ruin_  the flowers. To bring a blessed darkness with no lights to annoy his eyes. Maybe then the hallucinations will leave him be. He releases his grip, and Melkor's hand retreats, giving Mairon space to let his hands wander over the body beneath him. Melkor lies strangely still as Mairon undoes numerous clasps and buttons.

Mairon wants to undo and as he does so, something comes undone within  _him_.

As he tears away layers of silk, embroidered flowers spill forth and gold and yellow, searing bright, turn ashen and red before the pleasant colors fade into the soft tan of Melkor's skin. Pleats and seams rip apart feeling strangely like sinew under his hands, textile membranes coming apart. And always the flowers melt away at Mairon's touch because they were never really there - he knows that, but he also knows  _he can't just let them be._  He _must_  grab at Melkor's head, tearing the garland to pieces so that the harsh light disappears and the leaves fade into the black of his hair.

When Melkor reaches up to pull Mairon into a kiss, the maia closes his eyes, holds his breath, and feels like his lungs are about to burst.

He exhales deeply when they part.

His heart still beats quickly and his hands are restless, but he can take a moment to think about where he is, what he feels, what he sees.  _Scientific interest_ , indeed.

He looks down and sees that he has pushed Melkor down so that his master's hair and what was once his clothing spills past the edge of the divan and onto the floor. Bruises cover Melkor's exposed chest, shoulders and stomach and Mairon knows that they are made by him. He likes the sight.

His senses are not what they  _should be._ He notices that he can feel the fabric underneath his thighs, every individual fiber of the cloth. He spreads his fingers and lets his hands roam slowly around, touching every kind of fabric available to him as some kind of experiment - some of it feels horrid, making him shudder at the touch, and some of it is splendid, like water running over his skin. He feels the texture of Melkor's cape, his hand lingering there before his exploration continues over Melkor's chest, up to his exposed throat, following the paths of his veins.

Melkor's expression is one of wonder and excitement - "That was different," he whispers, his smooth voice helping Mairon stay lucid.

Mairon answers with a soft chuckle.

“It's not over.”

He places a hand on either side of Melkor's head, black strands of hair between his fingers. 

The lights are fewer now, easy to ignore, but Mairon is still so awake and aware of everything. When he moves his hips, grinding slowly against Melkor, the sensation is at once more dull and more powerful than usual. He hears the gasp beneath him and feels the fabric between them. Then he sees a speck of colour, a bud, and he kills it with his teeth. Melkor jerks ever so slightly when Mairon bites into his shoulder, gasping a single name-

"Mairon."

Melkor's blood has a strange taste now - Mairon can't think of anything but the copper and the copper reminds him of red fire, a distant forge. Once Angband was without its master and he had nothing to do but wait, biding his time by that forge until Melkor came back to him, and he had worked so much to feel useful, to reform and make like he had never been allowed to in Aman  _but he isn't there now_  - He fights to stay in the moment, moving from the wound to Melkor's lips to silence him with a kiss, keeping him pinned down-

"Is this what you wanted?" Mairon asks.

Melkor stares up at him with half-lidded eyes, at Mairon's mercy - or at least that is the illusion they both choose to share.

"Do you want to know what I see?" He continues.

Melkor smiles.

"I see you," Mairon says, pushing up against Melkor, feeling himself growing warmer, closer - "I see you, lying there,  _mine_ , and all-"

"And all the flowers?"

"I made them wither," Mairon sighs, "I... I ate them, they're gone now."

Melkor looks almost disappointed, tilting his head.

"Now there's just us and all the lights..." Mairon lets his voice fall to a heady whisper. "And the floors are breathing..."

He recognizes in his own voice some kind of ecstasy that seems foreign, like it doesn't belong there. He finally removes the last cloth that separated him and Melkor, his fingers finding woven velvet melting away between them and stubborn yellow silk that he pushes aside, discarding his pants. Between them is a soft, wet heat and Mairon gets by on touch, moving against Melkor. He can't tear his eyes from pleasant red of the bruises or Melkor's lips or his eyes. The world moves in time with him, the breathing of the walls and floor is his breathing, and with his free hand he takes the hand Melkor was digging into the soft arc of Mairon's own side and holds it in front of him.

Their palms don't quite touch. Between them a last, solitary, golden flower shines, casting a golden glow over their skin. Mairon stares and wonders if, at that moment, Melkor might be able to see it too. He lets it bloom for a short moment admiring the light -

Then he pushes their hands together and crushes it.

He feels Melkor's hand, skin, heat against his own, warm like copper left in front of a fire. He sees traces of red under his own fingernails.

His stomach is no longer numb and empty; instead there is fire and building tension. Mairon feels Melkor's hand on his cock and by this point he doesn't even care who does what or why or how, he just  _wants_. Yet somehow what happens to his sex is secondary at best to the pleasure he derives from controlling Melkor and from his altered senses. He still keeps Melkor beneath him, whispering faint praise he is only half-aware of himself. Melkor's hand establishes a quickening rythm and it's  _almost_  enough. Almost.

When Mairon pulls back wanting Melkor  _inside_ him, his intentions seem to be immediately understood. Melkor looks away for a brief moment that gives them both pause, looking for something in the cloth on the floor. He soon hands a small bottle over to Mairon who uncorks it and pours the wet contents onto his fingers, spending a moment just thinking about how it feels running over his hand. 

"Bastard," Mairon mutters, but the words come out under his breath and he's not sure Melkor even hears him. The sounds are all strange anyway. But how like Melkor to have planned ahead like this... Mairon shakes his head and reaches down between them, making sure that Melkor's member is slick in his hand. He strokes it a few times just to see how Melkor reacts, pushing up to meet Mairon's touch. Then, deciding he can't drag it out any longer, Mairon slides down onto his master's cock.

He moves slowly, taking in the pleasure but feeling strangely disconnected from his body all the while, from the faint sting of pain that he can easily ignore. He is spurred on by a deep moan from Melkor. Slowly, Mairon takes Melkor's full length inside him, sinking down on his hips again and again.

And like that, Mairon feels the rise and fall of Melkor's heavy breathing.

He hears the rush of his own blood in his ears like wind, like the sea back  _then_ , like... 

He shakes his head, a droplet of sweat falling from his brow. He's lost the words again, but that doesn't matter. All he needs to concentrate on is moving. He sets a pace much slower than usual between them and tries to think of little more than how _good_ it feels with Melkor inside him. How beautiful Melkor looks before him. How there is no space for the cries of the gulls when all he hears is breathing and heartbeats.

Every time Melkor thrusts inside him, Mairon sees lights. They linger out by the edge of his view, flickering, disappearing if he really looks in their direction. He must look utterly gone now, flushed face and half-lidded eyes -

He looks down at Melkor and sees a smile on his lips. It's an annoying smile. It says that Melkor still has everything under control, that he could end this any time should he choose to.

Mairon can't change that fact.

But he can hide the smile.

Mairon presses his palm down across Melkor's face, hiding all but the eyes, and there is a flash of anger in them that almost makes him laugh, high of everything as he is. He presses his hand down knowing that Melkor can't breathe but also knowing he can't choke to death, digging nails into Melkor's face and the skin is soft, soft and Mairon is so close now as he bends his head down so his entire body makes a curve, their foreheads touching. 

One slow breath, a movement of his hips, the feeling of his master's hand caressing his cock, and Mairon is coming. His climax leaves his fingertips shaking so much that has to draw back his hand from Melkor's face. His head buzzes, and everything is _brighter_  than it should be. From his core he feels fire that fades slowly into a gentle warmth.  He keeps moving gently back and forth, and he can feel it when Melkor comes, hear his breath of relief. Then he lets Melkor pull out, still a bit too dazed to move off of him. 

Melkor is quiet, having to catch his breath after being denied it, and Mairon wonders idly if the deprivation followed by the sudden rush of air made it better for him. That's a sign, he thinks, that he's coming down; a few moments earlier he had no thoughts for anyone's pleasure but his own. 

Melkor looks up at him with a look completely unlike the earlier scientific distance.

While he waits for any words to leave Melkor's bloodied mouth, Mairon takes a moment to asses his state again.

His fingers are tingling, but it's faint. The colors are still not right, though, and he stills feels too many things at once, too aware of temperature and texture, but he can deal with that. Slowly, he draws back, moving off of Melkor entirely. He becomes dully aware that he is almost naked. That it's a bit cool.

For a while he just feels his heartbeat, sitting on the other end of the divan. 

He watches Melkor sit up and make himself comfortable. Watches him touch the little red marks, almost in disbelief, and lick his biten lips.

"How was it?" Melkor asks. 

"Good," Mairon says. He's drawn his knees up to his chest. All his words are still swallowed by the sea, so all that he manages to add is "We ruined the divan."

"And I take it you have wanted to do that for some time," Melkor says, "If you hadn't had your inhibitions."

"If I was like you."

For a moment Mairon wonders if he's somehow insulted Melkor when the other person goes quiet. Then at last Melkor speaks again, moving aside to make space for Mairon.

"Come," he says. 

Mairon obeys. He's clumsy, moving awkwardly on his knees until he manages to lay down beside Melkor. He rests his head on Melkor's shoulder, pressed up against the back of the furniture on one side and the contours of Melkor's body on the other. Closing his eyes for a moment to block out the last fading lights, he then feels cloth being draped over him. He knows Melkor's cape by the feel of the fibers, the scent, and the still comforting weight. It makes an excellent anchor to the here and now. 

"We shouldn't-" 

"Do what you want," Melkor says. "You could rest a moment, at least."

"Maybe," Mairon admits. He waits a moment, figuring out how to swallow with his dry, unwilling throat. "So this is what our soldiers do?" he asks, his words ever-so-slightly slurred.

"What do you mean?"

"This plant seems very... effective."

"They only take half a leaf."

"...I see." 

"Perhaps it  _could_  work on me too, then." Melkor muses.

"Don't," Mairon answers. "I wouldn't want to see you like that."

Melkor watches him, toying absentmindedly with a strand of the maia's golden hair. Mairon wants that sight to stay with him, so he closes his eyes prepared to let the last of the plant's effects leave him in a sleepy haze. He inhales the scent of the room - sex, sweat, blood - of Melkor's cape - ash, smoke, faint perfume - of Melkor himself - indescribable. 

He hears Melkor's voice a last time before he fades away completely.

"Neither would I."

 

 


End file.
